A Study in Scars
by The Adapter
Summary: Brand new professor John Watson needed to get away from his horrible past and find peace. Instead, he found Sherlock Holmes; new roommate, consulting detective and new best friend! A modern day adaptation of 'A Study in Scarlet' (Modern day AU; Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson are genderswaped; WIP (Chapter 5/9))
1. Meeting Sherlock Holmes

**A Study in Scars**

* * *

_Being a reprint from the reminiscences of JOHN H. WATSON, M.A. in Medicine._

**Chapter I. Meeting Sherlock Holmes**

Last year I was offered a job as a professor of medicine at the University of London. A job that I took without hesitation. Not that becoming a professor was what I intended to do after getting my license as a practitioner ten years earlier. Sure, my old professors at Oxford would be delighted to know that I would finally take heed to their advise and recommendations to pursue an academic career. They would clap me on the back, saying that they always knew that military service wasn't suited for a bright mind like mine. They would be thrilled to hear that I left the common practice of healing sick people behind to chase after the much more important issue of unveiling the truth of the human body.

But the truth was far less noble. I hated the academic life. It just doesn't involve dealing with almost starved children, round and swollen black bellies filled with nothing but protein deficiency and pain. A classroom isn't filled with the burned, the crippled, the amputees that crawled their way out of their torture prisons. By spending my nights grading papers, I didn't have to spend them on picking the shards of a grenade a young woman's hips. Or several bullets, broken glass or splintered rocks. As long as I didn't have to bandage half rotten flesh wounds, hopelessly infected by rusty barbwire or a rabid dog. As long as I could get away from Somalia. To get away from that white armband marked with a red cross, I would have done almost everything. I needed a fresh start.

After several years of service, they labeled me with post-traumatic stress syndrome. They gave me a medal, an honorable discharge and a new job at the university of London. I was thirty-five, on the brink of depression, highly educated and as free as air - or at least as free as my salary of a professor without a PHD would allow me to be. And without having any relatives in this part of the country, I discovered quickly that living in London was quite expensive.

I was a sunny Tuesday morning when the solution to my troubles came to me in the form of a friend and a caramel flavored latte macchiato. I was sitting outside of my favorite coffee bar in Camden Lock - my drink in my hand, thinking about what I should be doing with my life- when suddenly felt a friendly tap on my shoulder. "John Watson?" I turned and recognized Ronald Stamford, who graduated with me as a chemist at Oxford. Seeing a familiar face in this great and unknown city after all this time was a pleasant thing for a lonely man.

"It is you! Good grief, John! How long has it been? Like ten years? What are you doing here?" he asked in undisguised wonder, as he sat down next to me, drinking his own pumpkin-spiced latte.

"Looking for lodgings." I answered smiling. "Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price."

"That's a strange thing," remarked my companion with a chuckle; "you are the second person today that has used that expression to me."

"And who was the first?" I asked.

A few hours later, we opened the doors of Ingold Labs on Gordon Street. We went left at the front desk and headed down towards room C.003: one of the bigger laboratories used by the chemistry department of the University of London.

"You've been very quiet about this friend of yours. You're not setting me up to meet some sort of psychopath, right?", I asked Stamford, trying to keep up with his pace descending the staircase. "It is not easy to express the inexpressible," he answered distracted, as he went into a corridor on his right. "I wouldn't use the word 'psychopath'. A little too scientific would be more appropriate."

-"What do you mean by that? Surely, as an academic you would appreciate a scientific approach above everything else?"

Stamford laughed. "Being scientific is fine. However, when it comes to beating dead bodies in the dissecting-rooms with a broomstick, or asking me if I would assist in an experiment involving arsenic intake to study the effects on the human body first hand, the term 'scientific' is certainly taking a rather bizarre shape."

-"Beating corpses?"

"Yes, to 'verify how far bruises may be produced after death.'"

-"You're kidding."

"I wish! I saw it with my own eyes. Ah, here we are!"

Stamford opened a door, and we entered a large room, lined and littered with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and several little Bunsen burners with their blue flickering flames. There was a woman in the room, bending over a distant table. She was in her early thirties, smartly dressed, with a bushy ponytail and bright green, piercing eyes. At the sound of our footsteps, she glanced round and sprang up with a cry of pleasure. "I have found a way to separate DNA strings in the blood from the DNA strings created by bone marrow!" Had she discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shown upon her features.

"Hello Stamford, I see you brought a friend. How do you do?", she said, extending a hand towards me. I shook it firmly. "London must be quite a change from Somalia, I imagine." I stood there like I was just struck in the face.

"How can you possibly know that?", I asked in bewilderment. The young woman chuckled to herself. "Oh, never mind! That's not important right now. What is important is the DNA! As a medical man, you can see the relevance of this new discovery, no doubt?"

"Well, it's interesting. Chemically, at least…" I answered hesitantly.

"That much is clear." the woman said dryly, as she started to put the test-tubes back into their metal holders. "What is also clear, is that you don't understand is the practicality of this discovery. While it is, in fact, one of the most practical discoveries in forensic medicine of the last ten years. Here, let me show it to you."

She took me by my shirt sleeve and pulled me closer to the table. Then, she took a cotton swab out of a plastic bag and put it in her mouth. After moving it around a few times, she took it out again and put in on a glass plate. "We can both agree that my saliva is on there. Ergo, my DNA is coated to that piece of cotton like wax to a candle wick, right?" She stared at me as if to answer, so I nodded politely. "That would be the case." – "Good!" She took a scalpel from her desk and made a small, but very precise cut in her left thumb. I was so surprised that I didn't have time to react. The dark red liquid bubbled up, out of her thumb and on another glass plate.

"Now, if we put these two plates in electron microscope, would you agree that the DNA that we could trace from the blood and my saliva would be identical?"

– "Absolutely."

"And that's where you'd be wrong!" With a triumphant smile, she took both glass plates from the table and held them very close to my face. "As the result of a bone marrow transplant when I was a little girl, some of my blood is tinted with my donors DNA. By my blood, I'm a different person than by my salvia. Now, if I were to commit a crime, wouldn't you agree that this condition would give me the perfect alibi to any DNA-based evidence that would come my way? I would simply donate my blood and be free of all charges. Now, with my test," and here she jiggled the glass dishes even closer to my face "I would be exposed for the great criminal that I am!"

Both myself and Ronald stood there in awe, impressed by this young woman. Then Stamford started laughing. "John Watson, I would like you to meet Sherlock Holmes." he said, by way of introducing us. He sat down on a high three-legged stool close to one of the workspaces and pushed another one in my direction with his foot. "Sherlock, my dear friend John needs a place to stay as he will be teaching here this year..."

–"Odd choice for a military officer."

"How did you know…"

"…and as you were complaining this morning that no one wanted to go halves with you", Stamford continued "I thought that I'd bring you two together."

If Miss Sherlock seemed appalled by the idea of living together with a man she just met, she didn't show it. "You don't mind bubbles, do you?"

"Excuse me?." I answered.

–"Soap bubbles. Sometimes I blow them when I'm thinking. Do you mind the sound or the smell of popping soap bubbles?"

"No, I can't say that I have something against soap bubbles."

– "Good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

"By no means." – "It's just as well for two people to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together. Let me see—what are my other shortcomings?", she said, tapping her teeth with a test-tube, pacing from left to right "There are times when I don't open my mouth for days on end. Please, just let me alone, and I'll soon be right." She paused and looked over at me. "What are your secret bad habits?

I couldn't help but laugh at this cross-examination. "I'm a terrible cook, and can get up at all sorts of ungodly hours. And I am extremely lazy. I think that covers most of them at present."

"Do still you own your gun?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Army officers in active warzones are obligated to wear a firearm, both for self-protection while retrieving wounded soldiers and in case of a surprise attack. Since you clearly weren't a combat medic, judging by the state of your body, I would say a pistol rather than a rifle. Probably a 9x19 mm A SIG Sauer P226. My question is when they relieved you of service, did they also relieve your service weapon?"

After that a there was an uncomfortable silence. Eventually, I quietly spoke."I kept my gun. And my nerves are a bit shaken. That's all there is. "

"Can your shaken nerves handle cello-playing? " she asked carefully, almost anxiously.

"Well, that depends on the player," I answered with a sigh, glad to change the subject

. "A well-played cello is a treat—a badly-played one—"

"You're right!" she cried, with a cheerful laugh. "I think we may consider the thing as settled—that is, if the rooms are agreeable to you. I have my eye on a apartment in Baker Street," she said, looking me straight in the eye. "The location would be perfect for my occupation, if not a bit crowded."

"Sounds fine by me. When shall we see them?"

"Call me at noon tomorrow, and we'll go together and settle everything," she answered with a bright smile and she handed me a small business card.

"All right—noon exactly," said I, shaking her hand.

I stood up and walked towards the exit. "One last thing." I asked, stopping in front of the door and turning upon Sherlock, "How in God's name did you know that I had come from Somalia or carried a pistol during my service there?" My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. "A good many people have wanted to know how I finds things out. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," I answered, and strolled on to my hotel alone, considerably interested in my new acquaintance.

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**Disclaimer**

_Hello fellow readers! This is my first fanfic/adaptation project, so please be gentle. As some of you might have noticed, a Study in Scars is a modern day interpretation of A Study in Scarlet and contains no sex, but some violence, death and murder._

_If anything, my work is an homage to the original 'A Study in Scarlet' and follows the storyline and structure in great detail. My work is very similar to the original, just because it is an adaptation more than an expansion of canon. I highly encourage you to read the original stories to see how I adapted the story! It is written by a FAR superior writer than me and makes my story far more interesting to read. I merely wish to revisit, expand and honor these works by adapting it to explore new possibilities._

_Since I'm not the remnant spirit of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (I'd wish!), **I do not own the rights to A study in Scarlet**, nor __are the work (or any other works by Doyle) my intellectual property in any form or any medium. Neither do I claim any ownership of any of the characters related to the original stories, modern day translations or adaptations. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote these amazing stories and characters, which I love to explore deeper, expand on and adapt to a different society. Just as his works, my __adaptations are a work of fiction. This is a fictional story about fictional representations of fictional people. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. If anyone is financially damaged by this work, please contact me and I'll remove the story right away. This adaptation is for entertainment purposes only! If you like my stories and wish to share them, please keep these intentions clear._


	2. The Science of Deduction

**Chapter II. The science of deduction**

The following day, Sherlock and I met up at the Baker Street station at one in the afternoon. As we went up the stairs out of the Tubestation, I studied my companion more closely. There was something about her appearance that struck the attention of any casual observer. She wasn't attractive in the traditional sense, but wasn't ugly of plain either. She was around five foot six tall and quiet muscularly build for a woman her size. Apart from her piercing green eyes, her chin too, had the prominence and squareness of a woman with confidence. His hands had long, delicate fingers, which were blotted and stained with ink and chemicals.

When we stepped onto the sidewalk - surrounded by the towering buildings on each side of Baker Street - I finally got up the nerves to ask her what had been on my mind the whole night.

"Yesterday, you told me you knew I was in Somalia.."

-"As a doctor in the military, yes.", she said, looking from left to right to cross the street.  
"How did you know that? How could you possibly know that?"

"By looking at you, my dear Watson."

-"Miss Holmes…"

"Please, call me Sherlock."

"All right, Sherlock. I would prefer if you wouldn't lie to me and tell me how you knew I was in Somalia."  
-"As I said, I observed!"

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock! I…"

-"You don't understand, John. I literally looked at you and came to that conclusion. Observation with me is second nature, deduction is a third. It's simply the science of deduction."

I laughed out loud. "Deduction? Please! You're telling me that you could deduce that I was in Somalia? On what grounds? I didn't tell you anything."

Sherlock sighed, stopped walking and turned to me. "If I explain my train of thoughts to you, you'll feel really stupid. Trust me, I've done it before."

-"Try me.", I said, locking eyes with this small, but confident woman.

"Very well, my train of reasoning ran like this: Here is a gentleman who is very conscious of the way his bones and muscles carry his body. By lack of extreme muscular development in the legs and torso, I can exclude him as an actor or dancer, so likely a medical type who spent time studying the human body. This idea is strengthened by being in the company of Ronald Stamford, who devoted his life to medical chemistry. This gentleman is not an academic, however! By the way he stares into the room, it's clear he hasn't been around a fully equipped laboratory for a long time, so it's someone who actually heals the sick. But not as a regular practitioner. He just came back from a sunny environment where he spent a lot of time outside. His face and hands are dark, but it is clearly not the natural tint of his skin. A holiday is also excluded, for his wrists are of a far lighter tone and who would sunbath in a long sleeved outfit? So you worked as a doctor in a foreign country, probably somewhere in Africa where there is a lack of shade to hide from the sun."

I stood there completely dumbfounded. Sherlock looked at me with a small glint of malice in her eye. The look of secret joy a student gets when dissecting an organism to see how it works.

"A doctor in a foreign country who holds himself erect and has quite the physic.", she continued relentlessly. "The physic isn't intentionally, as there is no hint of pride in his stance. It's the effect of hard training and hard work. So an army doctor, then. An army doctor who has undergone unbelievable hardship, as his haggard face and dark eyelids says clearly. He still has nightmare, probably because has seen too much horrors. Not just death, but horrible infections and gruesome situations. Yet there are no traces of physical injury, so he wasn't directly involved in a lot of combat situations. Yet he still was discharged. Now where in Africa could an English army doctor have seen so much hardship that it would mentally traumatize him to a point where he would be discharged to return to England? Clearly in Somalia, where almost a third of the population now lives in refugee camps due to decades of war, famine and destruction."

Sherlock gave a triumphant smile at the look of my astonished face.

"This whole train of thought ran through my head in a few seconds. I then simply remarked that London was different from Somalia, and you were astonished."

-"That's… amazing!", I said, with a loss for words.

"It is nothing", she said though I thought from her expression that she was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. "Do you feel stupid now?"

-"It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling.

We arrived at 221B Baker Street. It was a three story building, made out of red brick and across the street you could see a glimpse of Regent's Park. Cast iron fencing hang around the windows, little flowerpots hang from the balconies and behind one of the second floor windows was a sign saying: 'For Rent'. Sherlock knocked on the door and a small, old man with a walking stick opened the door. He was getting bald, dressed neatly in a checkered shirt and had the fiercest frown I had seen in a long time. He reminded me of a old, balding and slightly annoyed lion.

"Hello again, mister Hudson."

The old man looked at my companion with a suspicion glance.

-"It's you again. Miss…"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, mister Hudson. I'm back because of the apartment."

The man had a gravelly voice with a slight American accent, which suited his grim expression even better.

-"I told you, I'm not dropping my price. It's a beautiful location and it's not that much considering…"

"That won't be necessary, mister Hudson. You see, if you wouldn't mind, we would both like to see the apartment. To share it, as it were."

Mister Hudson took a good, hard look at me. "And who is this than?" he asked suspiciously.

"John Watson, sir." I said, extending my hand in a gesture of politeness. He didn't shake it.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

-"He's a good acquaintance." Sherlock said. "And a university professor with a very stable income."

"Really?" mister Hudson said squinting his eyes at me. "He looks quite young to be a professor. What does he teach?"

-"Medicine. I teach several classes about medical situations and health care in war zones."

Mister Hudson's stare became cold and his fist clenched. "What does a whippersnapper like yourself know about war?"

-"I was in one, sir. Several, in fact. I was a surgeon in Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." I said, averting my gaze to Sherlock, who didn't look back at me. Her green eyes staring right at mister Hudson.

"Oh…", mister Hudson said after a moment of silence and his tone changed remarkable to that of a man with great sorrow. "I'm so sorry, son. I didn't…" The man shrugged uncomfortably and opened his door. "Come in, you two. I'll show you the apartment."

Dumbstruck by this sudden change of events, I followed Sherlock up the stairs and into the apartment.

They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms and a single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows. There was a big fireplace in one of the walls, and small bathroom with a old fashioned, free standing bathtub. A small office that was furnished with three big leather armchairs next to great, floor to ceiling window. It was perfect for the two of us.

"Now, about the rent, mister Hudson." Sherlock inquired.

-"I'll do it.", mister Hudson mumbled.

"Excuse me?"

-"I said I'll do it. You can move in here, miss Holmes. The two of you can move in here this very instance if you'd like. I'll prepare the paperwork for you and you can collect the keys."

Sherlock nodded understanding. "That's very kind of you, sir. Thank you."

Mister Hudson looked straight past Sherlock and directly at me, with admiration and a tinge of sadness.

-"It's the least I can do." He lifted his shirt and I saw two great burn scars on his chest. The scars were clearly old, but still very visible. "I was your age when I got this. In Vietnam. My squadron was accidentally hit with napalm by an unannounced air strike." He said, looking me straight in the eye. "I was hit in the chest. The napalm burned like hell itself. I couldn't move. Later they told me some of my central nerves were burned and paralyzed. I lay in that jungle for two days, surrounded by dead friends and fellow soldiers, thinking I was going to die a horrible death of starvation and torture. Until one of your kind came along." He tapped to place on his arm where my red cross bandage would have been. "They saw me and realized I wasn't done for. They took me back to camp and restored me back to health and sent me straight home. It took weeks to learn to walk again, but I owe them my life. I owe you, mister Watson."

I swallowed a lump in my throat. "You're a very lucky man, mister Hudson." I said, still looking at the place on his shirt where his scars would be. "Napalm burns are extremely difficult to heal. Even if the victim survives the attack, especially the dermatological consequences of napalm burns are serious. Not to talk about the damage to blood and central nerve system. Even after the surgery there is a great risk of infections."

-"I know, son. They've told me that countless times. What's harder is to accept that being lucky makes the difference between happiness and total misery. So please, do an old man a favor, would you?"

He came close to me and whispered very softly.

"Please, try to find the peace we fought for. I could never find it myself." He raised his back, gave a short salute and left the room to go downstairs, his footsteps accompanied by soft mutterings.

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_A.N. Hello everyone. I decided to split this chapter from the original story into multiple parts to give it a more interesting flow. _


	3. The Cello, the Attic and the Father

**Chapter III. The cello, the attic and the father**

That very evening I moved the few possessions I had in the hotel to my new lodgings at Baker Street. On the following morning Sherlock followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking and laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we gradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our new surroundings.

During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to think that my roommate was as friendless as I was. It turned out that I was right; Sherlock Holmes didn't have any close friends. However, I soon found that she did have many acquaintances. There was a big, black-skinned man, with dark eyes and a crooked nose who was Sherlock called mister Lestrade. He came three or four times in a single week. Another morning a young girl of around twenty came around, fashionably dressed with blond spiky hair, and stayed for half an hour or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor, who was closely followed by a respectfully dressed elderly woman. When any of these nondescript individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes immediately took them to the study with the three chairs, and I would retire to the sitting-room out of hearing distance. After they left, she always apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience, and I didn't intrude in her personal life.

Holmes was certainly not a difficult woman to live with. She was quiet in her ways, but her habits were irregular. It was rare for her to go to bed before two at night, but she had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes she spent days at the Ingold institute, using the chemical laboratories or the dissecting-rooms. Nothing could exceed her energy when the working fit was upon her. So much so, that she seemed to be energized far beyond any normal person. On occasions such as there, I noticed her dilated pupils a hasty expression. And then there were times when a backlash would seize her. She would lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room for hours on end, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning to night. There where times when I suspected her of being addicted to the use of some sort of amphetamine. At the time, however, I ruled it out as an impossibility. After all, the woman was a brilliant chemist and very well aware of the hazardous effects of adding unwanted chemicals to the human body. But sadly, it was just this brilliant mind that formed the greatest threat to her health. It was something that I would have to keep an eye out for, as I found out much later.

Above everything, Sherlock adored her cello. Her skills were very remarkable, both as a musician as a composer. She could play difficult pieces any professional player would have struggled with. I knew well, because at my request she played Prokofiev's Sinfonia Concertante, and simply breezed through it. When left to herself, however, she would seldom produce any written music or even attempt any existing melody. Leaning back, she would just close her eyes and strike away at the cello. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. But mostly they didn't fit together harmoniously. Clearly, they reflected the thoughts which possessed her. The music stopped as soon as she opened her eyes again. But whether the music aided her thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the byproduct of a whim or fancy was more than I could determine. It was relaxing however, and I didn't complain about it.

As the first weeks went by like this, filled with mysterious clients and cello-playing, my interest in Sherlock and her aims in life gradually deepened and increased. You may set me down as a hopeless fool, when I confess how much this woman stimulated my curiosity, but don't get me wrong. My curiosity wasn't simply the biological reaction of increased levels of adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin and testosterone that a lot of men get by spending a certain amount of time with a woman! To put it more bluntly: I didn't fall in love with Sherlock. Heck, I didn't even feel a physical attraction towards her! Just imagine how objectless was my new life in London was. I had no friends or relatives who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence. I didn't know the city yet, and with the start of the school year - and my new job as a professor still a few months away - there was very little to engage my attention. Under these circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my companion, and spent much of my time in endeavoring to unravel it.

And Sherlock Holmes was quite the mystery. Except for the fact that she did not study chemistry or medicine – she made that very clear when I asked it of her – I didn't have a clue what she did for a living. Surely, no one would work so hard or attain such precise information unless he or she had some definite end in view. After all, no one burdens his mind with small matters unless he has some very good reason for doing so.

But her ignorance in some areas was as remarkable as her exact knowledge in others. Of contemporary literature, philosophy and politics she appeared to know next to nothing. One afternoon, I quoted J.K. Rowling and she inquired in the naivest way who this 'mister Potter' might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally that she was ignorant of the of the composition of the Solar System! That any civilized human being in this twenty-first century should not be aware that the earth travelled round the sun was such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it.

"You appear to be astonished," she said, smiling at my expression of surprise.

"Of course I'm astonished! How can you not know this? Didn't you see this in school?"

"I might have. Now that you've refreshed the memory, I shall do my best to forget it again."

"To forget it?!"

"You see," she explained, "I consider the brain to be like an empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. Now, a fool takes in everything that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out. At best, it is jumbled up with a lot of other things so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. There comes a time, my dear Watson, when for every addition of knowledge, you have to forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones. Therefore, I do not acquire knowledge if it doesn't bear on the subject I'm working on."

"But the Solar System…" I protested.

"What the deuce is it to me?" she interrupted impatiently; "you say that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or to my work."

-"What do you do for a living, anyway?". I had said it out loud before I could think about it twice.

"Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the world."

-"The only one of what?"

"I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is."

There was a short silence, in which I pondered this. Vague images of Sherlock sitting in a chair, giving therapy sessions to the large, black man know as Lestrade laying on divan chair sprang to mind.

-"I'm not sure.", I said hesitantly. "You consult detectives in their work? How exactly?"

"Here in London we have lots of government detectives and even more private ones. When these fellows are at fault - which basically is all the time - they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able to set them straight."

I looked at her curiously. This sturdy woman didn't seem the type for police work.

-"So, all these people that you meet in that study are detectives?" I asked, thinking of the blond-haired girl and the big black man known as Lestrade.

"They are my clients, my dear Watson. But not all of them are detectives. Some are, like Lestrade. He is a well-known detective in Scotland Yard. One of the best actually. Not that that's saying much. Still, he's got some merit for trying. He got himself into a mess recently over a forgery case, and that was what brought him here."

-"And these other people…"

"Are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are all people who are in trouble about something and want a little enlightening. I listen to their stories, they listen to my comments, and then I pocket my fee."

I looked astonished at my companion.

-"Do you mean to say," I said, "that without leaving your room you can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although they have seen every detail for themselves?"

"Not only that," Sherlock replied while grabbing her cello bow, "people pay me to do so. There are no real crimes and no real criminals in these days," she said, starting to play her cello with a melancholy tune. "I know very well that I have it in me to make my name famous around the world. No man or woman lives or has ever lived who did the same amount of study and had the same amount of natural talent to the detection of crime as myself. But to what result? There is no crime to detect! At most, there's some plain petty villainy with motives so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see through it."

I was beginning to get annoyed at her high and mighty attitude. For someone playing a cello whole day, she had the air of a queen. I walked towards one of the great windows and looked outside on the street.

"I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, looking at a hesitant individual who was walking slowly down the other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his hand.

"Do you mean the schoolboy who is contemplating his budding bi-curious nature while texting, or the postman who's an expecting father with the blue envelop across the street?" said Sherlock Holmes, without looking up from her cello.

"Show off!" thought I to myself. "She knows there is no way I can verify her guess."

The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were watching caught sight of the number on our door and ran rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, the door opening and deep voice of mister Hudson, and heavy steps ascending the stair.

"For Mrs. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and handing my friend the letter. "It needs to be signed."

Here was an opportunity of finally taking some of that misplaced bravado out of her.

"May I ask, sir," I said, in the blandest voice, "do you have any children?"

"Not yet, sir." he said, gruffly. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious, that's all. Just one more question, if you don't mind: What do you mean by "not yet"?" I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my companion.

The man gave me a strange look.

"I mean, sir, that I will be a father within this very month. My wife in highly pregnant. But if you don't me asking, what does this has to do with anything?"

Sherlock chuckled at the look of my awestruck face.

"Is he alright, miss?", the sailor asked.

-"Quite fine, thank you. He just lost a bet he didn't even know he made." She took the envelop out of his hands and signed for it. "Anyway, thank you so much for all your trouble and good luck with your new baby-girl."

Now, both the man and me stared at Sherlock, with huge eyes.

"I never said I was expecting a daughter", the man said suspiciously. "How did you…"

-"Just a lucky guess, I suppose." Sherlock said with a benevolent smile. "I had a fifty percent chance, after all! call it a woman's intuition! Have a nice day, sir!"

The man didn't look convinced, but said goodbye and left the apartment.

"How in the world did you deduce that?" I asked, after I heard the door slam shut.

"Deduce what?" said she, petulantly.

-"Why, that he was an expecting father of a baby girl."

"I have no time for trifles," she answered, brusquely. Then she recovered with a smile, "Excuse my rudeness, my dear Watson. You broke the thread of my thoughts; but perhaps it is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that man was expecting a daughter?"

"No, of course not!", I said angrily.

-"It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you were asked to prove that two and two made four without concrete objects, you might it hard to do so. Yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the street I could see blotches of pink paint on the back of the fellow's hand. That pointed to painting a room, likely for a girl, most likely his daughter. He had heavy bags under his eyes, however, indicating stress and sleep deprivation. There we have either a young child that keeps him up or insomnia due to stress. He was a man with some amount of self-doubt but also a certain glow of happiness and excitement. You must have observed the way in which he held his head and the envelop, with gusto and a certain _joie de vivre_. An excited, worried-looking, mid-thirties man with pink paint on his hands—all facts which led me to believe that he had been painting a nursery for a new addition to his family."

"Wonderful!" I blurted.

"Birth is always a wonderful thing, indeed." said Holmes, though I'm sure she understood the compliment just fine.

Then, her face darkened as she looked at the content of the envelop.

"What's wrong?", I asked.

\- "I said just now that there were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong."


	4. The Brixton Road Mystery

**Chapter IV. The Brixton Road Mystery**

Sherlock put the content of the envelop on the table. It seemed to be several different photographs, all of various artefacts that clearly belonged in a museum. One of the photographs showed an ancient looking, golden Egyptian statue of the god Anubis, while others showed a Chinese Vase, a painting of a rural landscape done by either a Dutch or Flemish master and a collection of golden coins. All these items looked impressive on their own.

"What are those?", I said laughing, looking through the photographs one by one. "Are you also consulting art dealers in your spare time?

-"Ha, I wish,", Sherlock said, with a cold laugh, "I could have saved some people a lot of money if they came to me first."

"You mean these aren't valuable?"

"My dear Watson, they are priceless. Expressions of artistic desire, performed in such dedicating and precision show the true passion of a person. Look at the detailing on this one.", she said, holding up the picture of the statue. "They even got the pedestal right this time… Well, almost at least, but you've got to admire the effort, Watson."

"The effort? You mean these are fakes?"

-"No, all of them are perfectly real. Real forgeries, that is. And some of them quite good at that. People don't appreciate the skill and effort of a good forgery. Doing something once with incredible skill is one thing. But looking at an artefact and copying all that talent and skill so precisely that people, even trained people, mistake it for an original? Now, that is artistry! If you ask me, these forgeries are masterpieces in their own right, just because they aren't what they claim to be. They tell a story about skill and precision as much as the originals do."

"I take it back. You'd be a terrible art dealer."

"I would. But changing my career is not what interests me at the moment. This is."

Sherlock hold up a folded note that was in the envelop too. Sherlock opened up the note and began to read aloud:

"MY DEAREST SHERLOCK HOLMES," she began. "Oh boy, he's in big trouble, isn't he?"

Seeing my lack of understanding, she added, "He always calls me his 'dearest' when he's in way over his head. Typical. He think he hopes that being called someone's dearest appeals to my 'feminine craving male approval'." She snorted. "If only he knew how stupid he really was. It's exactly this old-fashioned thinking that keeps him from actually accomplishing something. That, and the fact that he is usually very wrong."

-"Who are we talking about?"

"Here are the photographs from the forgery case you requested," she continued reading, ignoring my question. "I don't know if it will help you in anyway, as our experts have already checked all items very thoroughly . But since you've helped me on several occasions before… - he means every occasion of importance –" she said, looking away for the letter and at me. The gesture made it dramatic, like an aside Hamlet would have done in the first Act. I smiled despite my annoyance of Sherlock not telling me the writers identity.

"I'd be very glad if you could take a look at them for me. The coming days I'll be very busy with some other case. There has been a bad business last night on Brixton Road. One of our man saw a light there around two in the morning. Since the house was known to be empty, he suspected that something was amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a man. There had been no robbery, nor is there any evidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound upon his person. We at the Yard are at a loss as to how he came into the empty house. The whole affair is quiet a puzzler if you ask me. If you can come round to the house any time before twelve tonight, you will find me there if you want. We've have left everything in status quo until I hear from you. If you are unable to come, I would esteem it a great kindness if you would at least favour me with your opinion.

Yours truly,

Garry Lestrade."

"Garry is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend remarked; "he and Gregson are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and energetic, but conventional— even shockingly so. They have their knives into one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of professional beauties." Sherlock chuckled. "There will be some fun over this case if they are both put upon the scent."

I was amazed at her calm, almost uncaring way. "Surely, there is not a moment to be lost," I cried, "shall I go and call you a cab?"

"I'm not sure about whether I shall go." She said, hanging back in armchair.

My mouth dropped open. Sherlock spread an impish grin.

"I am the most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe leather—that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be useful sometimes. Besides, my dear, dear Watson, what does it matter to me?" she said, throwing her arms in the air.

"Suppose that I unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and the entire empire of dumb, government chauvinist that is the Scotland Yard will pocket all the credit. That's the price of being an unofficial personage."

"But he seems at a loss and asks specifically for your …"

-"Expertise?"

"I was going to say 'overcomplicating perception on the world around you and the people that live in it', but expertise also works."

Sherlock snorted.

"He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me. But he would cut his tongue out before he would say it to any third person. However, we may as well go and have a look. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!"

She jumped out of her chair with a surprising agile jump and hustled on her dark blue overcoat,

"What are you waiting for? Get your shoes on!" he said.

"You wish me to come?"

"Yes, if you have nothing better to do. And since you have no friends…"

-"HEY!"

"Oh, spare me the drama, John. You don't have any friends that will come visit you in the next couple of hours, will they? You wanted to know what I do for a living. I'm giving you a chance to see for yourself."

I hesitated for a moment.

"If I come with you, will you promise me one thing,"

-"Anything, my dear Watson."

"I'm not your sidekick!"

-"My dear doctor, I wouldn't dream of it!" Sherlock smiled, while she called for cab.

It was a foggy, cloudy day, who couldn't really decide if it wanted to rain or not. A grey-brown coloured veil hung over the housetops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets beneath. My companion, however, was in the best of spirits. She babbled away about Italian cellos, and the difference between the 'Davydov' and the 'Amati King'. Seriously, had she been talking about the latest episodes of Downtown Abbey, I couldn't have been more lost. I was silent, for the dull weather and the melancholy business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.

"You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand," I said at last, interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.

"No data yet," she answered, shrugging her shoulders. Her hair bobbing by the bumps of the road. "It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."

"You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with my finger; "this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much mistaken."

Brixton Road number 3 wore an ill-omened and menacing look. It was one of four houses which stood back some little way from the street. Number one and four were being occupied, the other two were empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that here and there a 'For Rent' sign hung like cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses from the street. It was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently of a mixture of clay, sand and of gravel. The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top. The whole place was even more dreary by the drizzle of rain that - in fact - had decided to fall. I remember people saying on television that crimes like these were always so unexpecting and shocking. But looking at Brixton Road 3 looked and felt like a murder scene. Even from the outside, the place felt like decay and death.

Against the garden wall leaned a big police constable, surrounded by a small knot of curious bystanders, who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.

I had imagined that Sherlock would have hurried into the house and plunged into a study of the mystery at once. Nothing appeared to be further from her real intentions. With an air of nonchalance which, under the circumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, she lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings. Having finished her scrutiny, she proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass which flanked the path. All the while, she kept her eyes riveted upon the ground. She stopped twice, and once I saw her smile, and heard her utter some sounds of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet, clayey soil, but since the police had been coming and going over it, I was unable to see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of her perceptive faculties, that I had no doubt that she could see a great deal which was hidden from me.

At the door of the house we were met by the tall, dark-faced, bald man Sherlock called Lestrade. He stood in his brown overcoat, with a small notebook in his hand; Upon seeing Sherlock, he rushed forward and shook my companion's hand. His hands were so big, that they completely encased her hand.

"Sherlock!" he said, surprising me with a heavy, but warm baritone voice. "It is so kind of you to come," he said, "I have left everything untouched."

"Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "If a herd of wildebeests had passed along in a state of total panic, there could not be a greater mess. No doubt, however, that you had drawn your own conclusions, Garry. Before you permitted this, I mean?"

"I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective said evasively, actually shuffling his feet. "My colleague, inspector Gregson, is here as well. I had relied upon him to look after this."

Holmes glanced at me and raised her eyebrows sardonically. "With two such fine men as yourself and Gregson upon the ground, there will not be much for a third party to find out," he said.

Lestrade rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have done all that can be done," he answered; "it's a queer case though, and I knew your taste for such things."

"Did you come here in a cab?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"No."

"Nor Gregson?"

"No, we came together," said Lestrade, whose features expressed his astonishment.

"Very well then, let us go and look at the room." With which inconsequent remark she strode on into the house.

I tried to follow her, but Lestrade held up his hand. "I'm sorry, sir." He said, towering over me like a pillar. "No civilians allowed on the scene of the crime."

-"It's okay, Lestrade. He's with me." Sherlock said, not turning her back.

"I can see that, but still, regulations and all…" he said, with a sympathetic face.

-"Regulations?" Sherlock said, a note of surprise in her tone of voice, "now that's strange. Last time I checked, you wanted nothing more than my help on the scene..."

-"Well, yes, but…"

"...and as far as I know I'm a civilian..."

-"Yes, well Sherlock…"

"...a civilian who, I might add, had no form of formal police training or even the slightest inkling of ever joining Scotland Yard."

-"Sherlock, don't be like that!"

"Do you even know who this man is, Lestrade?"

-"Isn't he your boyfriend?"

"Why does everyone keeps thinking that we have a relationship?", I said, getting annoyed by the fact.

-"What? You're not?"

"Not even close!"

-"Then why do you live together?"

"We just share a living space together." Sherlock said exasperated, clearly as sick from explaining it as I was.

-"You share an apartment!" Lestrade said, looking from one to the other. "Don't make it sound that you just have a common living room or just share a hallway bathroom or something. I've been to your place Sherlock! You share everything!"

"Even more reason to know that we don't live together!", Sherlock said, turning on Lestrade. "If so, where were the framed pictures of us together in the apartment? Where, would you say, is our shared birthday calendar? Do you think that, as his girlfriend, I would let him sit in his pajamas eating breakfast while I have clients over? Did he ever introduce himself to a man who visits my apartment several times a week, to see me behind closed doors? Did you ever seen us share a kiss, a hug, hold hands, share eye contact or do something anything remotely that shows our immediate affection towards each other? "

-"I just thought…"

"No, you didn't. You jumped to conclusions without having all the data at hand." Sherlock looked and me and held her hand up in a gesture indicating a perfect example. "Voila, my dear Watson. A prime example of an hypothesis without all the data. Really, Lestrade, it's not your finest."

-"That doesn't change the fact," Lestrade said, clearly annoyed by Sherlock's sharp tongue, "that he's a civilian and doesn't belong on a crime scène. Dead bodies isn't something everyone can stomach as easy as you can, Mrs. Holmes."

I laughed. "There's nothing new to me about a dead body, inspector. With all due respect, I think I've seen more death and horror in my short career, then you've seen in yours."  
Lestrade stared daggers at me. "I'm professor John Watson, lieutenant-colonel brigade surgeon in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. " I said, raising my hand so he could shake it. He didn't take it yet.

"As you can see, Lestrade, he is a doctor with experience in both traumatic environments and a history with autopsies. He might even be useful."

"Not to mention, do you think someone who enjoys crimes scenes as much as she does is completely sane?", I said in a low voice to Lestrade. "I think it's for the best if I come and keep an eye on her. Just for her own good, you know. She's a civilian after all."

Lestrade looked at me, eyes frowning. Then his eyes crinkled into a smile.

"I can see why you like him, Sherlock!"

-"I know, right!" Sherlock said.

He took my hand in a firm grip. took it and shook firmly. "Inspector Garry Lestrade, also not Sherlock Holmes 's boyfriend! Please to meet you."

-"Nor my sidekick," Sherlock mentioned off hand to me. "I'm going in now!" Sherlock turned around again and went inside the house.

I tried to follow her, but Lestrade held me there. He looked at me sternly.

"Listen, mister Watson, and listen real well. I don't know who you are yet, but I can that Sherlock thinks highly of you. However, she's still new with this. Dead bodies are interesting for a while, but trauma tends to catch up with you sooner or later. It leaves scars."

I shook my head in understanding.

" You keep that eye on Sherlock, will you? I wouldn't want her to get scarred as well. Even if it solves all my cases."

I nodded, feeling like I just made a new friend. He released me and we both entered the house after Sherlock.

* * *

_A.N. Hello everyone! I split this chapter as well, to improve the flow of the story a bit. Thanks for reading the story! It means a lot to me!_


	5. Rache

**Chapter V. Rache**

After entering the old house, a short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and the living room. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of these had obviously been closed for many weeks, due to the many spider webs crossing the doorpost. The other belonged to the study, which was the room in which the mysterious affair had occurred. Forensic officers and investigators walked in and out, wearing white plastic suits and latex gloves.

Before entering, Sherlock pulled something out of her right coat pocket and gave it to me. "Latex gloves and a hair net", she said, getting a second pair out of her left pocket. "When it comes to dead people, I like to come prepared. Nothing like catching bubonic plague because the police forgot to bring a spare set of gloves, if you catch my drift."

-"You know the bubonic plague has been eradicated in Europe for almost a century now?" I said, putting on the gloves.

"Ha, but there's always the exception, Watson. Would you like to be in the room with the exceptional corpse?"

-"With the bubonic plague? Sure, since it's easy to cure these days in with western medicine if you notice it in an early stage, which I would. Being a doctor with both theoretical and practical knowledge of the disease and its symptoms comes with advantages like that. It has clear visible symptoms that would warn me not to touch the victim on the infected areas or clothing and - most importantly- I can't catch it from a handling a corpse, because I'm vaccinated!"

Sherlock looked at me surprised.

"I've seen my fair share of epidemics in Africa," I said, focusing on getting my hairnet straight, "It's not pretty, but bubonic plague in London would be less harmless than you think these days. You're thinking of the Ebola virus, Sherlock. Let's be careful for that one, shall we?"

-"I'm rubbing off on you, am I not?"

"What do you mean?"

-"Do I really sound like that when I'm lecturing you?"

"You're way worse than that.", I said grinning.

-"I'm sorry about that."

"No, you're not."

Holmes grinned at me, turned around and walked in the room. I followed her, my temporary glee replaced with that subdued feeling in my heart, which the presence of death always inspires in me.

The study was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence of all furniture. A vulgar, tasteless paper with flowers ornaments adorned the walls, but it was discoloured by time, blotched in places with mildew and here and there great strips had become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath it. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to everything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.

All these details I observed afterwards, however. At present, my attention was fully focused upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched upon the boards, staring up at the discoloured ceiling with vacant sightless eyes. It was a man, about fifty-three or fifty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad shouldered, dark skinned with crisp curling black hair and a short stubbly black beard with tinges of grey coming trough. He was very well dressed in a heavy black woollen frock coat and silken waistcoat, crisp white linen trousers, and immaculate white golden cufflinks.

His hands were clenched into fists and his arms spread out left and right, while his lower limbs were interlocked as though his death struggle had been painful and long. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror, and as it seemed to me, of hatred. It chilled me to see a dead man in so much anger. The corpses I dealt with did never had these clear expressions of rage. I have seen death in many forms, but never had it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy apartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban London.

Next to the corpse, a lean, short man with mousy blond hair in his mid-thirties, was bent over the corpse with camera and a notepad. He didn't seem to notice us, until Sherlock stepped on a creaking floorboard and he looked up. His expression immediately changed from concentrated to happy. Then his gaze turned to me, and a singular event took place in his face. His expressions changed in manner of seconds from surprise, to anxious, to angry before he finally composed himself in a reserved manner.

"Misses Holmes," he said, walking towards us with clear, brisk steps, "to what do I owe the pleasure of meeting you?"

Sherlock pointed her eyes at the corpse, than back to the man. Then, without looking at me, she said:

"Doctor Watson, I'd like you to meet inspector Tobias Gregson. Mister Gregson, this is professor John Watson."

I offered him my hand, which he took and shook. His grip was a bit firmer than necessary, but I didn't let him know.

"A pleasure, mister Watson. You're an acquaintance of miss Sherlock?"

-"We live together." Sherlock said off-handed, stepping passed Gregson to look at the corpse. Gergson's face looked like it got slapped in the face by a dog; totally off guard and a bit anxious.

"Live together?", he said, his voice to formal and upbeat to match his rapidly changing facial features while staring at me.

-"Yes, I gave up the single, solitary life and decided it was time for some male companionship! Now, could you tell me all you know about the gentleman laying before us, if you wouldn't mind?" Sherlock knelt down next to the body and examined it intently.

"This case will make a stir, miss," he remarked, finally breaking his stare at me and walking towards the corpse. Resuming his work seemed to give him his confidence back. "It beats anything I have seen, and I am no chicken."

"There is no clue." said Lestrade, who entered the room behind me.

"None at all," chimed in Gregson.

"You are sure that there is no wound or signs of outward trauma?" she asked.

"Positive!" cried both detectives.

As she spoke, her nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while her eyes wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon when she played the cello. So swiftly was the examination made, that one would hardly have guessed the minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally, she sniffed the dead man's lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather shoes.

"He has not been moved at all? Did you take anything?" she asked.

-"No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination."

"Then, I presume you found both cell phone and his wedding ring?", she said, indicating the slightly increased band of flesh on his right finger.

"Those complicated matters a lot," said Gregson. "Heaven knows, they were complicated enough before."

"You're sure they didn't simplify them?" observed Holmes. "There's nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his pockets?"

"We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A kinetic watch, Seiko Kinetic Perpetual 7D56. Gold ring, with engraving 'Michella – 1987',"

-"Probably the name of his wife," Lestrade commented, "we're trying to contact her now, but we weren't lucky so far."

-"Golden tie pin—abstract design infusing the letters 'E', 'J' and 'D', all separated with a ruby. Carbon card-case, covered in Russian leather..."

-"Moroccan leather.", Sherlock observed. The detectives looked at her with a mix of annoyance and curiosity. "This is dyed goatskin, not cowhide." she said, by way of explaining herself.

"Moroccan leather," Gregson continued, slightly annoyed, "filled with credit cards, airline tickets and a passport. All registered to the name of Enoch J. Drebber of São Paulo in Brazil, corresponding with the E. J. D. design of the tie pin. Cell phone is a Blackberry 9900. No purse, but some change in his left trouser pocket to the extent of seventeen pounds thirteen. And a hotel business card."

"At what address?"

" Torquay Terrace 4, Camberwell. The man was working in P.R. for a pharmaceutical company in Brazil. He was here with an associate, a woman called Elisa Stangerson. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about to return to São Paulo yesterday night."

"Is she your main suspect, detective?"

-"She is.", Gregson answered.

"Have you made any inquiries as to this Stangerson?"

"I did it at once, miss," said Lestrade. "I have had messages sent to all hospitals, airports and harbour security, and one of my men has gone to the Brazilian Embassy, but he has not returned yet."

"You did instruct your men to ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you to be crucial?"

"I asked about Stangerson."

"Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case appears to hinge which you forgot to mention?"

"I have said all I have to say to you, Sherlock. Don't push your luck, okay?" said Lestrade, in an offended voice.

Sherlock Holmes chuckled to herself, and appeared to be about to make some remark, when a forensics officer tapped detective Lestrade on the shoulder – which was quite an accomplishment seeing the size of the detective - rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.

"Mister Lestrade, mister Gregson, Miss Holmes." he said, nodding to each of them in a respectful manner. "I have just made a discovery of the highest importance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a careful examination of the walls."

The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point in front of his superiors.

"Please, gentlemen and lady. If you would stand there please!"

He took a small flashlight out of his tool belt and shone it against the wall.

"Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.

In the particular space he was pointing at, a large piece of wallpaper had peeled off, leaving a yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word—

_RACHE._

"What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air of a showman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked because it was in the darkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there since it's so far away from the body. Since there's no blood on the victim, we can conclude that the murderer has written this with his or her own blood! See this smear where it has trickled down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow."

"And what does it mean now that you _have_ found it?" I asked the inspector, not understanding this revelation at all.

"Mean?", said Gregson, with a twinkle in his eyes. "It could mean a lot of things! 'Rache,' is the German for 'revenge'. This clue has just revealed this was an act of retaliation! Why are you laughing at me, Garry! Just admit the fact that you didn't think of this first."

-"I'm sorry, Tobias," he said, laughing loudly at the flustered face of his smaller colleague. "But aren't you thinking too far ahead? Why would there be a German message on the wall in a London apartment, near a Brazilian body?"

"Then what's your theory, then?", asked Gregson, staring daggers at Lestrade.

-"I think it's far simpler than that! The writer was going to put the female name 'Rachel' there, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish! You mark my words, when this case comes to be cleared up you will find that a woman named Rachel has something to do with it. It's all very well for you to laugh, miss Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done."

"I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had ruffled Lestrade temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. "You both certainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out, and, as you say, it bears every mark of having been written by the other participant in last night's mystery. I have not had time to examine this room yet, but with your permission I shall do so now."

As she spoke, she whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying glass from her pocket. With these two implements she trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon her face. So engrossed was she with her occupation that she appeared to have forgotten our presence. She chattered away to herself under her breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encouragement and of hope. As I watched her I was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded well-trained hunting dog, dashing back and forwards through the bramble, whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent.

For twenty minutes or more she continued her researches, measuring with the most exact care the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me. Gregson and Lestrade were watching the manoeuvres of their amateur companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to realize, that Sherlock Holmes' smallest actions were all directed towards some definite and practical end.

Occasionally, she applied her tape to the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place, she very carefully gathered up a little pile of grey dust from the floor, and packed it away in a plastic bag. Finally, she examined with the word upon the wall with her glass, going over every letter of it with the most minute exactness. This done, she appeared to be satisfied, for she replaced the tape and her glass in back in her pocket.

"They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," she remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply to detective work." "You can take him to the mortuary now," she said. "There is nothing more to be learned." Gregson called for a stretcher and four men came in, covering the man with a cloth and taking him away.

"What do you think of it then?" they both asked.

"It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to presume to help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world of sarcasm in her voice as she spoke. "If you will let me know how your investigations go," she continued, "I shall be happy to give you any help I can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the policeman who found the body. Can you give me his name and address?"

Lestrade glanced at his notebook. "John Rance," he said. "He is off duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate."

Holmes took a note of the address in her own notebook and nodded.

"Come along, doctor," she said; "we shall go and look him up. I'll tell you one thing which may help you in the case," she continued, turning to the two detectives. "This is a murder case, done by a man. He was more than six feet high, but with small feet for his height. He was in the prime of life, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked filtered menthol cigarettes. He came here with his victim in a cab, who followed him without into the house without signs of struggle. In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but they may assist you."

Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.

"If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the former.

"Poison," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. "Oh, and one other thing, detectives," he added, turning round at the door: "You're right that 'Rache' is the German for 'revenge' and the start of 'Rachel'. But since this man is Brazilian, isn't it safe to assume that the message refers to the Portuguese word 'rache', which is the first-person singular present subjunctive of the verb 'rachar'? Rache means 'I crack', 'I cleave' or 'I split' in the victims native tongue after all. If I were you, I wouldn't lose your time looking for Miss Rachel or a revenge plot. I would look for someone with a split lip or fractures nose that would have bled quiet a lot. Maybe even enough to write a message on the wall with?"

After which she smiled, said "Gentlemen.", turned around she walked away, leaving the two rivals open-mouthed behind her. I hid a smile, showed my respect to the detectives in charge, and walked behind her, leaving the house into a drizzling afternoon rain.

* * *

_A.N. Sorry for the delay on this one. I struggled a lot with the 'Rache clue'. I hope you'll enjoy the result though._


End file.
